


there is a hole in the world

by monsterjournalism



Series: mics are for singing not swinging [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, good news: dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14841551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterjournalism/pseuds/monsterjournalism
Summary: where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which i find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. i miss you like hell.-frank castle, recovering. [set before "hold the mic", companion piece to "now i'm home..."]





	there is a hole in the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [throats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/gifts).



The first week, she whines throughout the night, breath whistling fretfully through her nose even when she sleeps. It might drive Frank batshit, if he weren’t already awake. But he paces the perimeter of his shitbox apartment all hours, and he can’t find it in him to mind.

So Frank listens to her. Not the voices that filter through his thin walls, the crash of glass breaking, the sirens — sounds that climb up off the streets of the Kitchen and through his window, populating the corners of his studio with threats. Frank takes deep breaths, phases them out. Holds onto the sound of the puppy crying.

Her fur is short, chocolate brown, and very soft; her head and paws seem too big for her little body (she’s at least half Staffy, Frank would bet money). She sleeps in stops and starts. She’s a fussy eater, and shits on the floor when Frank’s not looking. So Frank watches, cataloguing objectives in his head: Keep the dog healthy. Keep the dog occupied. Keep the dog safe.

One morning, a couple weeks in, he finds her gumming ineffectually at the steel toe of one of his combat boots. Later that day he goes out and buys two retail bags’ worth of chew toys, piling them in a basket by his front door, where she can reach.

The dog won’t be with him very long, Kate’s assured him. Frank figures naming her is a bad idea.

 

-

 

Frank decides to call her Edna.

It’s been three weeks. She’s sleeping curled against his ribcage — has been for the past few nights, now that Frank’s confident she won’t shit or piss the bed — when he’s jolted awake at 2:49 a.m. by a dream he can’t remember and doesn’t want to.

Frank squints against the dark and hauls himself up and out of bed, but only makes it a handful of steps before he trips over a rope toy Edna’s abandoned on the hardwood. The burst of adrenaline when he stumbles sparks in his gut and snaps him wide awake; when he reaches the kitchen, he puts on a pot of coffee because there’s no reason not to.

It’s past sunrise when Frank realizes he slept for over two hours, uninterrupted.

Frank considers telling Curt, but the impulse buries itself under embarrassment and vague disgust, quick as it appeared. A familiar voice sneers in his head: _Passed out for almost three hours, and it didn’t even take a lullaby. Good for you, Frankie._

Another voice, housed in the part of Frank’s brain that isn’t completely fucked, tells him to stop being a wallowing asshole, that progress is progress. So the next time he’s at group, he mentions he’s sleeping better. Edna snuffles at his feet. He can tell Curt’s smiling without having to look.

 

-

 

Frank’s been taking Edna virtually everywhere with him for a month now. Which means smiles from strangers on the street, directed at the little bundle of fur peeking out from the crook of his arm (or nestled in the hood of his sweatshirt; or trailing at his feet; or zipped inside his jacket, head peeking out where the dip between Frank’s clavicles would be visible otherwise). People stepping close, reaching out. Excited kids staring at him in the grocery line. The kids get to hold her, long as they ask first.

It’s — good. She relies on him. Keeps him accountable for his time. Means he can’t lose the thread for too long. Means Frank has to rely on himself, too.

 

-

 

Kate places her after a little over a month. With a young couple, apparently, probably looking to take care of something together before they go and have a kid. Frank wrestles down a sick swoop in his gut when he drops Edna — though that won’t be her name, anymore — back at the shelter. He says his goodbyes and leaves her, biting down on a morsel of grief that threatens to slide up out of his throat and across his tongue when he does; stop that shit before it mutates into something bigger than he can handle. And all over a fucking dog.

But. It’s like that, Frank thinks. An object on a shelf you have to take down carefully in order not bring the entire shelf crashing down with it; small griefs stored alongside large, so you can’t touch one without the other cutting you open.

He goes back to his empty apartment. Makes dinner. Gathers up Edna’s toys into the basket by the door.

He misses her.

(He misses _her_.)

 

-

 

It’s less than two weeks before Bishop’s got another one for him to look after. More than one, actually — an abandoned litter, practically newborns. Her voice is hesitant over the phone, offering Frank an out in case he’s decided babysitting isn’t his thing. But Kate can’t hide her exhaustion, either, or the note of hopeful expectation.

“They need to be fed every three hours or so, and I thought out of our volunteer pool you’d be best equipped to provide that type of care.” Translation: _They need to be fed all the time, and I’m tired as fuck, and it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right, so maybe… ?_

Frank goes shopping that night: dog bed big enough for a Mastiff, kibble, books on puppy training.

This is something he can do.


End file.
